


Adrift

by dee_ayy



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Complete, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-07
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2018-01-14 21:28:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1279501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dee_ayy/pseuds/dee_ayy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Without her he would be completely adrift. Adrift and alone. Of this he was quite certain."</p>
<p>Ichabod Crane is forced to contemplate life in the 21st century without Abbie by his side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Adrift

**Author's Note:**

> Though I spell it "lieutenant," I don't have to tell you that when Crane says/thinks it, it's pronounced "leftenant," do I? Didn't think so. Just making sure, as it came up with my last story. ;)

**Adrift**

**By dee_ayy**

**March 6, 2014**

 

Awareness returned in a mad rush, and Ichabod scrabbled to his knees quickly, only to fall back prone to the ground when he realized the projectiles--were they _rocks?_ \--were still flying at a furious pace.

Where was Miss Mills?

He couldn't see from his position on the ground, his face buried in the forest floor, but that wasn't all. The vision in his right eye was fuzzy, something making it unfocussed and slightly . . . red. He reached up to try and wipe the obstruction away, only to realize that it was his own blood running into his eye from a wound somewhere above it.

He hadn't felt a thing.

"LIEUTENANT!?!??!" he shouted, fervently hoping that she would respond.

She did not.

After what seemed like an interminable amount of time, the sound of projectiles whizzing by overhead ceased, and Crane ventured to lift his head. When that action failed to bring about a new volley, he sat up entirely, breathing with relief when it became clear that the danger had passed. He used a nearby tree as leverage to stand.

"Lieutenant?" He called again. "I believe it is safe to rise."

When she again did not answer, he scanned the area, trying to find her. Tentatively, for he wasn't entirely sure it was safe, he took a few steps away from the protection of his tree, and scanned the area again. His vision still was not as clear as it should be, so it took a moment before he realized that the crumpled heap on the ground located about 150 feet to his left was, in fact, his partner.

Panic, absolute, sheer panic filled his chest as his feet started moving toward her. "Oh, no, no, no, no, no" escaped with his breath as his pace quickened. Roots and rocks caused his feet to stumble, but he stayed upright, and at long last he was there. Crane crashed to his knees by her side.

"Lieutenant?"

"Abbie?"

Gently he turned her over, and his gut clenched when he saw that the front of the unconscious woman’s shirt was covered in blood. The words "a mortal wound" leapt into his head, and he thought he would be sick.

But no, he reminded himself, this is not 1780. It is 2013, and much has changed. He gently placed his hand on her chest, and almost collapsed with relief when he felt the steady rise and fall of her chest as she breathed.

But still, she needed help. They were in the middle of this godforsaken forest, and she needed help urgently.

What was he going to do? He looked around, realizing that was an utter waste of time. He knew the way back to Miss Mills' automobile, but that was of no use, as he did not know how to drive the blasted thing. Why hadn't he paid attention? Why hadn't he insisted that she teach him?

Of course, the phone. He searched Abbie's pockets and found it, thanking God that she had given him lessons in its use. He quickly found Captain Irving in her contacts, and pushed the proper spot to connect the call.

"Mills?" Irving answered.

"Captain, there has been a most grievous event. Miss Mills is badly injured and I require assistance most urgently," Crane rushed out.

"Wait. Crane? What?"

Was he so difficult to understand?

"It's ABBIE," Ichabod stressed. "She is hurt. We need help!"

"Okay, Crane, where are you?"

"I do not know how to tell you, exactly. In the forest somewhere. The Rockefeller Park, near the Lake of Swans. Miss Mills parked the automobile next to the lake." Crane pressed hard on her wound, trying to stem the flow of blood. "Please, she is bleeding quite badly."

"How far are you from the road? Can you get to it?"

"Yes," Crane promised. "I can get there."

"Okay. Get her to the road, and we'll find you. Leave the phone on, and we'll use that to triangulate your location if we have to."

Crane had absolutely no idea what he was talking about, but he followed the instruction and pocketed the still-live phone. He stood and bent over, pausing slightly as a bit of dizziness struck. But he ignored that, picked up Miss Mills, and started running.

+*+*+*+*+

"Sir, did you lose consciousness?"

Crane could barely remember how he'd gotten to this tiny curtained space, with this man dressed all in blue interrogating him. It was all a blur: reaching the road and practically collapsing there, the lieutenant still in his arms; the flashing lights of the police cars and ambulance; the myriad of people who descended upon him and relieved him of his burden; the dizzying speed with which the vehicles traveled. And before he knew it, here he was. And where was the lieutenant? He had no idea. Everything and everyone had moved so fast that he was swept to his current location before he could even process that he was being separated from her.

"Sir?"

Right. The questions.

"I may have lost my wits for a brief moment, but no, I do not believe I lost consciousness."

"I'm sorry, did you say ‘lost your wits?'"

Ahh, these people and their pathetic comprehension of their own language!

"Yes, lost my wits. My brain was a little . . . addled . . . for a moment." The blank look on the nurse's face told Crane that he still was not being understood, only causing his agitation to increase. "CONFUSED!" he finally shouted. "For the love of God, I was a bit CONFUSED for a moment! ADDLED BRAIN! Do you understand, you, you . . . ." He stopped there, thinking better of insulting this man who, he knew, was only trying to help him. If Lieutenant Mills were here, this is where she would step in and act as intermediary for him, as she did so frequently and so capably.

But she wasn't here. He was very much alone in this very confusing and frustrating situation, the fact of which he was suddenly painfully aware.

Take a breath. Calm down.

"Kind sir," he continued after that breath, "I assure you, I am fine. It is Miss Mills who requires urgent medical attention, and I would appreciate it greatly if you would take me to her."

Just then Captain Irving pushed the curtain surrounding the cubicle aside. "Crane? What's with the yelling?" he asked.

Ichabod arose from the gurney. "Captain, kindly inform this gentleman that I am quite well, and that he should be expending his energies on Lieutenant Mills."

The police captain smiled wryly, which Ichabod loathed, as it always seemed as if he was laughing at him when he did it. "Crane," he explained, "there are probably 100 people working in this ER. There's plenty of people to take care of Mills. In fact, she's got a whole team with her. So sit back down, and let this guy look at your head."

"With all due respect, I will not. I am fine. And I most strongly believe my place is with Miss Mills."

Irving actually rolled his eyes at him. "Have you seen yourself, Crane? You look like you just fell out of a slasher flick." Ichabod shook his head at that nonsensical analogy, so Frank continued. "That's one hell of a cut on your head. You're _not_ fine. Sit back down, that's an order." Ichabod started to protest, but the look on the captain's face gave him pause.

He sat.

Irving took the nurse aside, but Crane could still hear bits of what he was saying. He definitely heard the words "stubborn" and "worried." And the phrase "patch him up," whatever that meant, followed by "full responsibility." The man in blue nodded and left.

"Okay, Crane, here's what's going to happen," Irving addressed him. "They're going to close that cut and let you go, okay? It shouldn't take long. And since I figure you won't be going anywhere until we know how Abbie is doing, if you go south on us, you'll be right here." Crane had no idea what "go south" meant, but he could make an educated guess. "I told him I'd take responsibility for you, so if your head starts to really hurt, or you get nauseous or dizzy, do me a favor and tell me, okay?"

Ichabod figured it wasn't worth mentioning the past incidences of dizziness, so he just nodded once. "Thank you, Captain."

"Yeah, yeah, don't mention it."

+*+*+*+*+

The police captain had been true to his word, and after a very short period of time and nine "stitches," Crane found himself released from the clutches of the medical personnel. He was directed toward the "waiting room," where his nurse informed him the "others" were waiting for news on Miss Mills. Ichabod thanked the man for his help, and started in the given direction, but as soon as the nurse turned away, Crane turned down another hallway.

He had to find Abbie.

He tried to be unobtrusive, but found that very difficult. Peeking around curtains without being seen was all but impossible, and then there were the rooms behind closed doors. For those he quickly realized that people ran in and out constantly, so if he waited a moment, invariably the door would open and he would get a look inside.

This "ER," as Irving had called it, was a vast maze, though, and he was having no success. As he moved deeper into the bowels of the department his anxiety grew, manifesting itself as a tightness in the middle of his chest that threatened to steal his breath away.

"Mr. Crane, what are you doing?" It was the nurse who had cared for him. What was his name? He could not remember, which Crane found odd. He remembered everything.

"I am looking for my friend," he explained.

"You can't be back here," the man told him, taking him by the elbow and starting to lead him away.

Crane removed himself from the man's grasp and stood his ground. "I don't understand . . ." What was his blasted name? ". . . Sir. Mere moments ago not only could I ‘be here,' you insisted that I stay. And now you insist on the opposite? I really must locate Miss Mills immediately." And not just because she could explain the seemingly ridiculous rules of emergency medical care to him.

" _'Mere moments ago,_ '" the nurse started, making no effort to hide his exasperation, "you were a patient. Now you're not. Therefore, you have to leave. Immediately. We can't just have people wandering around back here."

Crane looked around. "I still do not understand. I see many people who appear to be neither patients nor medical staff. Why may they be ‘back here' but I may not?"

"They're family members. Family can wait with patients. Friends cannot. You have to go."

Ichabod wanted desperately to convince this man that he and Abbie were so much more than friends; that their bond was so much stronger than that--that they were, in many ways, closer than family. But he knew that would not be believed.

"Can you at least inform me of her condition?" he finally settled on.

"Yeah, I can do that for you." The man sidled up to a computer monitor and started tapping away. After a moment he looked up. "You're wasting your time back here, anyway. They took her to surgery."

Surgery. Crane knew the gruesome connotation of that word from his time would no longer apply, but he also knew that it still indicated a very serious injury.

"I see," he whispered.

"Let me take you to the waiting room."

This time, when the nurse took his elbow, Crane did not resist.

+*+*+*+*+

Ichabod assumed that the "others" the nurse had mentioned meant merely Captain Irving, and perhaps Miss Jenny if she'd been contacted, so he was taken aback when he rounded the corner and found the room filled to the brim with what appeared to be the entire Sleepy Hollow police force.

He could not face these people. He felt their stares when he had occasion to spend time in the precinct office, though he had no idea what he had ever done to earn such disdain and even recrimination. Miss Mills was his protector against these crude men. More than once she'd advised him to "ignore them," which he had become quite adept at doing. But now? Without her there to act as a buffer? He could only imagine it would be much worse now, with Abbie gravely wounded and he to blame.

That thought entered his mind and surprised him. Was he to blame? Yes, of course he was to blame. It had been his idea to search those woods for the stone well he'd read mention of in one of Corbin's files. He hadn't even known its significance; had merely surmised that if Corbin had taken an interest, it was worth "checking out," as his partner had put it when she agreed to the excursion.

Yes, if he hadn't been so keen on going exploring, Abbie would be well and whole and by his side, where she belonged. It was, indeed, his fault.

"You son of a bitch!" Those hateful words broke Ichabod's reverie, and he looked up just in time to see Luke Morales approaching like a bull on a rampage, hands raised. He gave Crane a hard shove, and the soldier stumbled backward, his shoulders and head hitting the doorway with not inconsiderable force. The impact made his head spin, causing him to clench his eyes tightly closed, lest he be ill. He reached behind him and held the doorjamb to steady himself, but thankfully did not leave his feet.

In short order he was able to stand back up straight, square his shoulders, and adjust his coat, but he did not respond to the angry detective. What was there to say?

He felt a presence at his side, and noticed it was Wendy, the receptionist. "Luke?" she asked plaintively as she slid protectively in front of Crane. "What has gotten into you?"

Ichabod couldn't help but smile ever so slightly at the notion that another small woman was leaping to his defense, just as Miss Mills always seemed to be doing. These were different times, indeed.

"Do you think this is _funny_?" Morales reached around the woman to shove Crane in the shoulder again. But this time Ichabod was ready for it, and was unmoved.

"MORALES! Stand down!" Irving was quickly between the two men, pushing the detective away. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

The Captain kept one hand on Morales' chest, physically preventing him from launching himself at Crane a third time, but turned to look at the soldier. Ichabod found Irving's appraising look unnerving, especially when it stopped for a long moment on his hands, which Crane realized were clenched tightly in fists. He quickly released their tension, for fear Captain Irving might mistake the posture for aggression.

"Crane, you're a mess," Frank told him quietly. "Why don't you go clean yourself up?"

Ichabod didn't need to be told twice and he quickly, and gratefully, made his escape.

+*+*+*+*+

Though he knew that the door was "automatic" and would shut on its own, Crane pushed the lavatory door closed and leaned against it for good measure. He allowed himself a deep, calming breath before inspecting the door for a lock that would afford him some privacy, cursing when he found none. No surprise, as the facilities were clearly meant for use by many gentlemen at the same time. Ichabod was no prude, but he still found the notion that this era opted for communal facilities when they clearly were not necessary a bit odd.

No matter. He was away from the others and alone, at least for the moment.

He approached a sink, and investigated his face in the mirror. Irving was right. The staff had cleared away a great deal of blood, but it still streaked the right side of his face. Crane pushed his hair aside to inspect the wound located at his hairline. It was shiny from a salve placed on it, but uncovered. He could see the small, neat stitches placed by the physician, and the area surrounding was beginning to bruise.

Enough of this. He was there to “clean himself up,” and that was what he meant to do. But as he reached for the faucet handle, he caught sight of his left hand. It, too, was stained with blood.

But this, he knew, was not his.

He pulled his hand up and studied it, turning it over, momentarily mesmerized by the sight. He looked at his right hand and it, too, was soiled with blood.

Abbie's blood.

This time, when his stomach rebelled, Crane was unable to quell it, and he allowed himself to be sick. After a moment, he stood from his position over one of the toilets and rinsed his mouth at the sink, washing the offending sight from his hands in the process.

Now what?

He could not go back in that room, with those people and their stares. He could feel their judgment; judging not only his culpability for Miss Mills' injury, but everything else about him: his unease in this world and around them; his orneriness; his stubbornness; all of it. They didn't know his situation, of course, but they knew there was something off about him.

And it would be so much worse if not for the lieutenant.

Crane started to pace the length of the small room. What would he do if the unthinkable happened? How could he possibly survive without Abbie? Just a short time ago he'd been unable to handle a cut on his head without. . . how had she put it? Without “losing his cool.” Yes, that was it. Trying to hide his confusion and ignorance was exhausting, and Miss Mills was his sole refuge. She was the only person who understood, who knew when he was befuddled, and usually without him saying a word.

She was his teacher, his guide, his confessor, his protector, his friend.

His only friend on this earth.

Ichabod Crane leaned against the far wall of the bathroom, and slid down until he was sitting on the floor.

He didn't know what else to do.

+*+*+*+*+

Crane had absolutely no idea how long he'd sat silently, alone, in the men's lavatory. He knew he was hiding, and he knew he risked missing some vital news on Miss Mills, but he could not force himself to rise and join the others. He also could not prevent his mind from venturing into the dark, dark possibilities that this current situation entailed.

When he heard the door open, he did not look up, assuming it was just some man wishing to use the facilities. It was inevitable that his solitude would be short-lived.

"So there you are." It was Miss Jenny, but her voice was gentle and kind, so unlike her.

"Miss Jenny?" Crane started to push himself to his feet to greet her arrival, but the woman crossed the room quickly and pushed him back down before he made any appreciable progress.

"Don't get up," she instructed, instead situating herself right next to him on the floor.

"Is there news?" He could not imagine another reason she would be looking for him.

"No, nothing yet."

"You should not be in here. I believe the ‘ladies' room' is across the hallway."

Jenny chuckled at that. "And that's where I'd go if I wanted the bathroom. But I wanted to find you, and you're here, so this is where I am."

 "I cannot imagine why," the soldier admitted.

"Why would you say that?"

"Why would you want to pass time with the person directly responsible for your sister's grievous injury?"

Jenny actually hit him on the arm, hard enough to make him flinch. "Wow, Crane," she exclaimed, "Just wow."

"Excuse me?"

"You're even more arrogant than I thought, and I thought you were pretty arrogant already. Have you _met_ my sister? She makes her own decisions; you're not responsible for what she does, or the consequences of her actions."

Crane chuckled ruefully at that claim, causing Jenny to apprise him quizzically. "Your sister accused me of arrogance not long ago, making much the same argument," he explained. "You are very alike, you two."

"I don't know about that. But in this case she was right. And so am I."

Crane rested his head back against the tile wall and looked up to the ceiling. "Perhaps. But the fact remains that I should have been able to protect her."

"Well, at least that hasn't changed in a couple of centuries."

While they shared many traits, Miss Jenny far surpassed her sister at speaking cryptically. "What has not changed?"

"Just the whole ‘macho men thinking they need to protect the helpless damsel in distress' thing. I think you're all hard-wired that way."

Crane sighed. Though the context made the overall meaning of her words clear, half of that sentence was unintelligible to him, and it suddenly made him consider the fact that Abbie must routinely temper her language for the sake of his comprehension. It had never really occurred to him how much she had been forced to adapt to his presence in her life.

"Well," he finally responded, "in my day it most certainly was a gentleman's responsibility to ensure the safety of the ladies in his keep."

Jenny snorted; actually snorted out loud. "I am not even going to touch this whole ‘in his keep' thing, but surely you've noticed by now that we _ladies_ are more than capable of ensuring our own safety." She leaned away from him and gave him a thorough appraisal. "In fact, I'm pretty sure I could take you."

Ichabod allowed a slight chuckle. "I believe you probably could."

At that moment the door to the lavatory opened and a slightly pudgy, middle-aged man lumbered in.

"YOU!" Jenny commanded. "OUT. NOW." Her voice brooked no argument, and the man did not even take a moment to protest. He turned tail and left, clearly intimidated by the small woman at Crane's side. All he could do was shake his head.

"What?"

"It seems, in this time, I often find myself the recipient of the protection and defense of women."

"Not like home, huh?"

She'd called Crane's era "home," as if it were a place, and not 232 years ago. He had done that with her sister once, and the lieutenant had corrected him. "You are home, Crane," she'd told him.

And he'd almost believed her. But now the reason for that faith in her words was abundantly clear to him. He could feel at home in the 21st century solely because of Abigail Mills.

Without her he would be completely adrift. Adrift and alone. Of this he was quite certain.

He felt a slight nudge to his right arm, and in response he looked at the woman beside him.

"Hey, she's going to be okay," Jenny said quietly. "She has to be."

"Yes," he sighed. "She has to be. But if she is not. . . ." He could say no more, and quickly looked away.

"If she's not, what?" The gentleness in Jenny's voice only made it harder for Crane to keep control of his emotions.

If she's not, what would he do? If she's not, what would become of him? If she's not, how would he be able to go on? He hated himself for these self-centered thoughts. Miss Mills was the one fighting for her life; she was the one in danger, not him. And yet, all he could think about was his own situation. Arrogant, indeed. And selfish, too. Oh, so very selfish.

This maelstrom of emotions--fear, anger, frustration, guilt, anguish, who knew how many others--threatened to overwhelm him, and Crane quickly launched himself upright, and resumed his earlier pacing of the small room. He noted that Miss Jenny, too, had stood.

"What's going on, Ichabod?" she asked him. Ah, the use of his given name. So rare from these sisters.

"You would think me a selfish reprobate should I give voice to the thoughts in my head," he admitted.

He could feel Jenny approach him from behind, but she did not touch him. "You mean, like, ‘What'll happen to me if something happens to her?' Those kinds of thoughts?"

Crane turned to face her, stunned that she could so easily read his mind. "Yes, God help me, yes!" he confessed. "I cannot keep these thoughts from my mind. Your sister is fighting for her very life, and all I can think about is myself. It is shameful."

"No, Crane, it's not. She's important to you. I get that."

Ichabod spun away from the woman and started pacing anew. "She is so much more than important, Miss Jenny. I quite literally cannot fathom how I might survive in this world without her help and guidance. I will be like a ship off its mooring, adrift in this vast sea of modern times. Your sister is my compass. I surely will not be able to find my way without her.” He stopped his movement, and turned to face Jenny before adding, “she is all that I have."

Jenny took one step toward him before stopping. "No she's not. Maybe she was, but not any more. There's me. And Irving, too. We know what's what. If we have to, we'll be there to help you. But we _won’t_ have to."

Ichabod was touched by her words, but doubtful the woman had any idea what such an offer entailed. Nevertheless, he told her, "Thank you, Miss Jenny. This knowledge is a comfort."

Jenny smiled one of her mischievous grins before adding, "and hell, that Wendy woman has a huge crush on you. No telling what she'd do for you."

"A crush? I'm afraid…"

Jenny chuckled. "She likes you, Crane. Really _likes_ you, if you know what I mean."

"Oh." Suddenly it dawned on him what she meant. "Oh! I had no idea!"

"Men usually don't."

Crane decided to let that line of conversation die there. "Miss Jenny, may I ask you a question? How did you know what I was thinking?"

This time Jenny did reach out, and grasped his wrist with her hand. "Been there, done that, British. She's the only reason I'm not in the nuthouse, remember? Without her, what'll happen to me?"

Ah, of course. He should have known. He turned his wrist until he had her hand in his own, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Well," he offered, "it seems you and I are quite the pair."

Jenny smiled, and was about to say something, when the door swung open. It was Irving.

"There you two are. She's out of surgery. The surgeon's looking for you, Jenny."

Crane grabbed the door and held it open for the lady. As she passed, he whispered "Thank you, Miss Jenny."

"Any time, Crane," she whispered back. "Anytime."

+*+*+*+*+

By his estimation, Ichabod had been sitting in this most uncomfortable chair for over two hours. But he was certainly not going to move, not until Miss Mills awoke, and he was assured that, as the doctor had promised, she would be well. He had no idea who had arranged for him to stay here--his earlier experience in the emergency room had left him despairing that he'd be allowed to sit by her side, but there had been no question, no confrontation, no admonition that "friends" were not allowed.

He did not question it. He did not care why he was allowed to stay, only that he was.

Even Miss Jenny, because she recognized how important being here was to Crane, or perhaps because she was incapable of sitting still for more than ten minutes at a time, had long ago left him alone with his partner.

He again caught himself fascinated by the beeping noise that he had quickly realized was the representation of her beating heart. Strong and steady, it was. And comforting. Likewise her chest rose and fell with steady, comforting breaths. For a time he tried to match his own breathing to hers, before settling back in the chair to continue his wait.

He felt his own fatigue beginning to win, and was about to finally stop fighting the strong urge to nod off, when a groan from the bed roused him. He quickly sat forward and grasped Abbie's hand in his own.

"Miss Mills?" he encouraged her. "Abbie? Please, Abbie, wake up. It is time to wake up."

After perhaps the longest moment in Crane's life, he was rewarded with fluttering eyelids, and at long last, the large brown eyes of the lieutenant were studying his face. Ichabod felt the tear of relief spill down his cheek, but he was not inclined to stop it. "Oh thank God," he breathed out.

"Crane? What happened?" She was groggy and disoriented, but Crane didn't care. She was awake, she was speaking to him, and she would be well again.

"You were injured. The details do not matter now, but you will be alright." He smiled warmly at her, and cradled her hand in both of his own. "Yes," he decided aloud, "everything will be all right."

**End**

**Author's Note:**

> I firmly believe that Crane fully appreciates how important Abbie is to him, and wanted to write something that made that clear. 
> 
> Thanks, again, to Michelle. We're egging each other on in this fandom. It's fun.


End file.
